You look at the picture and you can smell the decay. His freakish mottled orange face is lumpy now, sagging from within like a sad Halloween jackolantern still sitting on the front steps in December. The rot has been progressing from the inside out for way too long for lack of some punk coming along, lifting the lid and dropping a lit cherry bomb, or maybe some rabid raccoon just rolling him away to its den. Trump is an apt metaphor for America, and Mr. Jack O'Lantern has already seen to accelerating our own rot with his spreading of disease of every kind.
It's way past midnight. There is no prince.